A 20-acre utopia smack dab in the middle of Hillmomba, where Hillbilly Mom posts her cold-hearted opinions, petty grievances, and self-proclaimed wisdom in spite of being a technology simpleton.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

We Need To Talk About Farmer H

Yes, Farmer H has been off the ol' blog hook for a week now. And I don't mean OFF THE HOOK in a good way, like those young whippersnappers use it these days. Or ten years ago.

Farmer H said he would like some Lit'l Smokies (Hillshire Farm's spelling, not Mrs. HM's) in BBQ sauce for supper last night, along with mashed potatoes. That's not a big deal. Easy enough for Mrs. HM to heat on the stove. We had no potatoes in the Mansion, but there was a box of instant mashed potatoes that The Pony liked. Both my boys eschewed REAL mashed potatoes for the boxed kind. I blame their daycare provider, thought of by both #1 and The Pony as a gourmet chef. "Why can't you make it like VICKI makes it?"

The supper was made. And left to sit on the burners, because Farmer H had alternative plans that included picking up a stump in the scoop loader on his tractor. The blue MODoT auction tractor, not the green John Deere tractor that he was going to sell to pay for part of the blue MODoT auction tractor.

I didn't care when Farmer H ate his supper. I was having something else, that being a Banquet TV Dinner, BBQ rib with mashed potatoes and corn. I told Farmer H to leave the Lit'l Smokies in the pan and put it back in FRIG II, and the potatoes in the plastic container that I set out for him. Farmer H is not good at making decisions.

Imagine my surprise when I went to bed, seeing two empty pans on the stove, and inside FRIG II, the potato container, and another one that Farmer H had picked out, that one being clear with a blue top, for the BBQ Lit'l Smokies. Here's the thing. I plan on feeding Farmer H these leftovers on Friday. Now I will have to wash the pan and have him dirty it again. OR he will take the easier route, and microwave the BBQ Lit'l Smokies in that container, and burn a BBQ sauce stain into it, if not totally melting the plastic at the top of the BBQ sauce level.

He never rinses them completely. I don't see the point in doing it half-a$$ed. Either rinse them, or leave them. Why go to the trouble of rinsing when they're still dirty enough to need scrubbing? But even more striking a discovery, after seeing that Farmer H had gone to all that work to almost clean the pans of potatoes and sauce remnants, was to find that he had left THIS:

Uh huh. The paper plate that I had laid the stirring spoon on, that Farmer H likes to eat with, because he prefers a serving spoon since it is easier to shovel larger quantities into his gaping maw, I suppose. And that plate was left behind in case I wanted to use it again, perhaps. Since it would not have been all that hard to grasp it between finger and thumb, pivot, and drop it into the wastebasket under the kitchen counter where my dishwasher has been going to be installed since we moved into this Mansion back when #1 was about to turn 3, and The Pony was kicking up his heels in my belly.

Maybe I shouldn't have thrown that plate away. Maybe I should have saved it for Farmer H to use on Friday.